Pride, 2016

Pride 2016.  Her facebook page rolls up in my newsfeed.  Her face bunched up in a selfie with Mrs B.

’17 years together. Happy Pride!’

I hover.  Heartbeat rises. Then I click ‘like’.

Then another.  She’s in a pub with Mrs B watching Mrs B’s team play football.

‘The things I do for love.’   She declares. I don’t ‘like’ this one.  Even in an attempt at magnanimity, that would look too false; I’ve always hated sport.

A thousand thoughts cross my mind.  That ’17 years’ minus the two with me, and the two with the famous lesbian novelist, and the six months she spent with my ‘heterosexual’ married boss,  does not leave Mrs B and B with ‘17 years‘… But we’re post-Brexit, post–truth now.  Everything is just another discourse!

(re: U2)

 

..so fare thee well, goodbye, I got so angry, now I sit here and sigh. My love, always, we should rejoice in these Titanic days

She taught me a lot.  When she fucked me over when I wouldn’t be her fuck toy anymore, she taught me, eventually, that I sometimes make wrong choices.  She taught me that she was a wrong choice, albeit a choice, and that I had some responsibility to take for that.  She  treated me like I was less human than her, because I let her.

All the times she shut me down because I hurt from what she did to me, I let her.
I felt for her pain, but did nothing to mitigate my own.
I remember the earliest days when I’d established in my head that she had more to lose than I did, because she still lived with Mrs B, and losing that (and the million pound house by the Royal Park) would be a greater loss than anything I had to lose … I think now this shows that I was thinking only of the possibility of a happy ending when I put this half-arsed theory together, because in reality, being single and having invested entirely into a relationship with B, I had everything to lose.  And I lost.  I digress.

I let her never spend a night with me.  I let her never be seen with me in the places that were important in her life.  I let her never introduce me as something important in her life, I let her keep me as her accessory, but never with the status I craved.  I let her keep the legitimacy from me I craved.  I let her never give me certainty.  I let her friends hate me, and the world make me the home-wrecking whore.  I let her tell me that I was the one who would not commit.  She said I would lure her in and throw her away, like I did with C before her, she said … She told me I was playing at being attracted to women and would leave her for a man in the end.  Funny that she never committed.  That she waited until I was ready to give up everything for her and she ran.  That she went back into Mrs B’s waiting arms into the sunset, and it is me who is still on her own, three years on …

Ultimately, I lost my job.  And soon I will be boarding a plane taking me to the other side of the world.  Where I will be going entirely on my own.

I lost a lot more than just ‘stuff’ though.  More than all of this, I let her belittle me and tell me I was never enough.   She drew me into her crazy world where she said she couldn’t be with me, because she had to be with Mrs B, but that I was mad because I saw a direct conflict between the two lives she was leading. ‘It’s not a competition’, she told me over and over again.  And then picked fights over nothing because … I don’t know really, maybe she wanted to push me away, maybe she wanted to show me she was in control, who knows, maybe she felt guilty that I was so besotted with her and she was lying to me and always knew she was going to fuck me over in the end, and sometimes it just overwhelmed her… maybe she just hated me deeply …

So it was.  I’d boarded the Titanic, lived Titanic days.  Today I’m acknowledging I’d been an agent in that, though I cannot quite rejoice in it yet.

(re: MacColl, K)